Poet and Contemplative

“From the abundance of his spirit [the poet] pours out secrets and mysteries rather than rational explanation” (Prologue, The Spiritual Canticle).

“In contemplation God teaches the soul very quietly and secretly, without its knowing how, without the sound of words” (Chapter 39, The Spiritual Canticle).

In the spirit of St. John of the Cross, this blog reflects on the contemplative experience and the poetic experience, sometimes separately and distinctly, sometimes in common, as mutually enlightening.

I will also post to this blog, from time to time, my own poetry, with a short interpretive note attached.

Reflections on Holy Week – Part 1 of 4

What happened to the body of Jesus after his crucifixion? Where did it go? It depends on what me mean by body, right?

By body are we referring to Jesus’ humanity, or, more specifically, to his mortality, his being subject to a finite existence as an isolated and vulnerable self, ultimately beholden to death?

Or, in a similar, but more theological vein, are we referring to his being incarnate—that is, the divine now embodied and comprising a specific and concrete presence among us as one of us, a member of our race or species?

Or are we referring rather precisely to Jesus’ historical presence—that is, his presence within human history, a presence revealed through his acting upon it, his affecting and changing it, even in some measure transforming it? That is what we must mean when we call Jesus “savior.” From within human history he propelled it irrevocably in a forward rush of recreative grace, the coming of the Father’s kingdom.

He did so, of course, by means of his active, embodied presence among us. Thus, can we say that, by the word body, we are referring to Jesus’ life work, his mission, his cause?Written by Fr. Bonaventure, OCD

Easter Sunday

The two departed for Emmaus late morning;The heat of the day flopping itself downIn front of them like a hound dog. Soon the crowdsWould swell and clog the road. The dayWas overcast, our two pilgrims downcast—He whom they called Master having become outcast.

It almost works with “grown” as well—the dayWas overgrown with dangling, grayish-gold pears,Their skins pallid with age and sudden disbelief.

The heart of life’s hopefulness had begun to fail,Pumping at only forty-five percent, as had happenedWith my mother. Then, that morning,The blood in her veins turned a rusty brown.

Their Master had been outgrown—as in outstripped—While trying to accomplish what was neededWhen at last the hour arrived. He himselfHad warned us against such a fatal miscalculation:

Seeing how the man was unable to complete his tower,The onlookers laughed at him and said, “This one beganTo build, but didn’t have the wherewithal to finish.”

“Along the whole dusty road,” they told us later,“He had hid himself to our left or right, justOut of sight among the rocks and olive groves.Or he’d approached from up ahead, past the rise

In the road, walking towards us with the sunAt his back.” It’s a little unnerving when youThink about it. My eyelids droop, and a thickBlack curtain falls as though in a darkened theater.Boom, I snap alert. Someone’s standing there

In front of me, leaning in like a summer day, the airAround me buzzing with a now unimpeded embrace.Then the chapel’s air-conditioning kicks in;The room returns to its usual half-muffled giggling.Written by Fr. Bonaventure Sauer, OCD

Holy Saturday

Swaddled in white air, the great ash tree sleeps fitfully.Shadowless at noon I walk out among the roses and coriander,A patch of geraniums nearby, all smiles. Here one talksAbout love poems, without the will to write one.“Oh, I wish I could play the piano like a pro. Clear and crispMy interpretation of Prokofiev’s Toccata would be…”So a voice in my head distractedly declares.

It’s Holy Saturday, and Jesus is in Hell—or Hades,Sheol, the Pit; he’s paying the piper for us. UnderneathThe Underworld a booming cavern fills with water each spring.No one can see it, but all can hear it sloshing aboutLike milk in the stomach. Jesus reaches down into the darknessAnd, with cupped hands, draws up a drink, his lipsNo longer cracked, his tongue no longer swollen and blistered.

*

In 1308 my ancestors were among those massacredBy Teutonic Knights. Yet one relative survived, a boy of 13,Who hid behind sacks of onions in a cellar. LaterHe would set sail on the Baltic Sea, returning to GdanskAfter a decade at sea, older, wiser, weathered, missingHis right eye. He’d come to fetch himself a bride.

And so my ancestral line awoke, lifting trunk and branchesAnd silvery buds like so many successful franchisesDotting the map. Let a crystalline wave spout upwardAs if it were a sperm whale breaking the surface, leapingInto the light, and flooding the sky with its joie de vivre.Written by Fr. Bonaventure, OCD

Good Friday

Veneration of the Holy Noose began at 3:45And lasted a total of 20 seconds. Only twoFrom a church full of worshippers stepped forwardTo kiss the rope and genuflect before the slowlySwaying, twisting corpse. The rest stayedIn their pews, put off by the spectacle,Unwilling to engage in the travesty.

*

Canyons roar in the wind. Trees creak sadly.Waves throw themselves at the warm sand,Their bodies emitting an elongated swoosh.Rocks no longer lie mute, not today,Not ever; from deep within themselvesThey join the chorus. At the head of it allThe Maestro opens his arms like a conductorSummoning up the big finale—now he’sLocked in place, stiff as a board, the last chordStill raging. Screech, scratch, scrape go the violasLost somewhere on the crowded stage.

*

If only I could mourn fully the utter degradation,The unrelieved anguish, the everlastingCrush-you-under-my-heel of the one I regardedAs right and worthy of being listened toWith the ears of the soul—a real challengeFor anyone, but somehow strangely satisfyingEven in failure. It seems we wanted none of it,Though. Like an old dog we put him down,Till he lost his bark, and we could step over him.

Sunset shone in our faces. But my eyes,Thick with tears, couldn’t squint. LightInvaded the glass castle that appeared suddenlyBefore me. Blood red were the cannon blastsThat breached its walls. Soon night tumbledFrom the heavens—though not like a fallen angel;That’s too severe. Night, rather, brought sleep,And sleep’s soft blanket. I saw it all around me.Written by Fr. Bonaventure, OCD